The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 442: The Professor’s Search for His Student
Draven moved silently through the dim, empty corridors of Aetherion, his eyes fixed on the faintly glowing compass in his hand. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and magic, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft clinking of his footsteps against the uneven floor. His appearance was slightly disheveled—his hair unkempt, his collar loose, his normally composed countenance showing the wear of time spent navigating the labyrinthine halls. His face was a mask of focus, his jaw set in hard determination, the glowing compass his only guide.
He wasn’t usually one to show frustration—a luxury he had long since learned to discard—but now, with each step he took, a memory replayed in his mind, driving a blade of anger through his chest. Amberine being dragged into the portal, her frightened eyes meeting his for that split second before she vanished. He hadn’t moved fast enough. He hadn’t anticipated them—the Devil Coffin—acting so boldly, not here in Aetherion. He had made an error, and someone else was paying for it. It gnawed at him, a frustration that fueled his every movement.
The fact that his student is paying for his carelessness
Draven stopped, his gaze turning to the compass, watching as its glow flickered erratically. He frowned, his brow furrowing. The mana signature was faint, weak—likely the chains sapping Amberine’s power. He couldn’t let her remain in their hands. He had given her his word, and he never broke a promise. Not to students, not to anyone.
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"Focus," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the hollow silence of the corridor.
Draven closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a deep breath as he concentrated. He channeled his mana into the compass, his fingertips brushing over the cold metal as he fed it with his energy, willing it to find her. He could feel the object pulse beneath his hand, its glow brightening, its vibrations growing stronger. His eyes snapped open, his gaze sharpening as the compass’ needle swung to the right, pointing with sudden intensity towards a direction. A small, almost imperceptible hint of hope flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the cold mask of focus.
Without hesitation, Draven began to move, his strides long and determined. The hallways twisted and turned, a dark, labyrinthine maze that would leave anyone lost, but not Draven. He knew Aetherion—the underwater fortress was as familiar to him as his own mind. As he moved, he kept the compass close, his other hand ready, his psychokinesis pen floating beside him, a shimmer of blue in the darkness.
His pace was quick, his focus unwavering, the flickering compass guiding him through the darkened halls. As he rounded a corner, he came upon a small group of Devil Coffin members. Their eyes widened, their mouths opening to shout an alarm—but Draven didn’t allow them the luxury of sound. With a flick of his wrist, the psychokinesis pen shot forward, glowing with an ethereal blue light. The force was swift and brutal, smashing them into the stone walls like ragdolls. Their bodies crumpled, lifeless, as Draven continued walking without so much as a glance.
More appeared, drawn by some sense of urgency or perhaps simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Draven dispatched them just as easily, the glowing pen moving as an extension of his will, carving a path through the underlings. He had no patience for delays, no time for distractions. Each obstacle that stepped into his way was removed with a cold efficiency, the stone walls splattered with the evidence of his determination.
The compass led him to a seemingly empty chamber. Draven stopped, his eyes narrowing as he took in the room, his gaze sweeping across every inch, calculating. There was something about this place—the air felt different here, heavier. He could almost feel the hidden barrier, like a thin veil separating him from something just beyond his reach. He took a breath, muttering under his breath as he recalled theories on dimensional magic, thoughts he had long since dismissed as irrelevant to his studies. Dimensional magic was a complex and impractical branch—too many variables, too much that could go wrong. He had never invested much time into mastering it—it wasn’t necessary. At least, not until now.
He knelt, pulling out his psychokinesis pen, his fingers tightening around it as he began to draw on the cold, damp stone. Symbols—ancient, complex sigils of dark magic—began to take shape beneath his hand. The pen glowed, the psychic energy carving intricate patterns into the floor. Draven’s eyes remained focused, his mind clear. This was not a time for doubt.
The symbols completed, Draven closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he began to channel his mana into the circle. The energy crackled, the air around him shimmering as the magic took hold. He began to chant, his voice low, a growling incantation that echoed through the empty chamber. The words were ancient, filled with power, a language long forgotten except to those few who understood its importance.
He could feel the circle reacting, the symbols glowing brighter as the energy built, the air around him growing thick with the weight of magic. His face contorted in concentration, his jaw clenched, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He pushed harder, the glow growing stronger, the energy coalescing, the shimmer in the air taking form. He could almost see it—a tear, a rift beginning to form, reality bending to his will.
But then it faltered, the energy slipping through his grasp like water through his fingers. The rift collapsed, the symbols dimming as the magic dissipated. Draven’s teeth ground together, his hands clenching. He wouldn’t allow this. He had to get through. He had to reach her. He began again, his voice louder, his focus sharper, pouring everything he had into the spell.
The shimmer returned, the tear forming—for a moment, he thought it might work, that he might succeed. But then it collapsed once more, the backlash hitting him like a wave, sending him stumbling back, pain shooting through his body. He tasted blood, felt it trickle from the corner of his mouth, but he ignored it, his eyes narrowing with fury.
"Damn it," he growled, his voice barely audible, his hand gripping the pen until his knuckles turned white. He was close—so close, and yet, something was still missing.
Ifrit, perched a few steps away, had been watching, his small form trembling as he saw Draven’s repeated failures. He didn’t like the man—didn’t trust him, not after everything—but he knew that Amberine needed him. She needed Draven, and if Ifrit was being honest with himself, he needed Draven too. The little fire spirit could see the blood on Draven’s lips, could see the toll the failed spells were taking on him.
Ifrit scurried over, his tiny claws clicking against the stone floor, and without a word, he climbed up Draven’s shoulder, perching there. He closed his eyes, a determination forming within him, the flames that had been snuffed out reigniting across his tiny form. He felt the warmth, the fire spreading through his body, and then he spoke, his voice filled with a quiet determination.
"Human," he said, his tone steady despite the fear that gripped him. "I will assist you."
Draven blinked, glancing at the little spirit on his shoulder, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected the spirit to be willing to help him. But there was no time to question it, no time for anything but action. He nodded, his expression softening for the briefest of moments.
"Alright," he said, his voice low, his gaze turning back to the circle. "Let’s do this. Together."
The two began to chant, their voices overlapping in an ancient, powerful symphony. Draven’s deep, commanding voice intertwined with Ifrit’s fiery, determined tones, the resonance of their combined chant filling the chamber.
"Lacrimosa ignis, flammae potentia, aperi portam obscuram!" Draven intoned, his words echoing with authority, the sound vibrating through the stone walls.
Ifrit followed, his small voice fierce with determination, "Lux ardens, ignis vitae, duc nos in abyssum!"
Their chants overlapped, creating a rhythmic pulse of energy that seemed to breathe with life. The magic circle glowed once more, symbols brightening with an almost blinding intensity as their combined energy flowed into it. The air grew thick, crackling with power, swirling around them like an unseen storm. Draven’s face remained a mask of focus, his eyes sharp, the glow of mana reflecting in his gaze.
The rift began to form again, larger this time, the shimmer turning into a visible tear in reality. The energy was unstable, the air vibrating with the force of the magic. Draven pushed harder, his body trembling with effort, Ifrit’s flames glowing brightly, his tiny form almost lost in the blaze.
But despite their combined efforts, the rift remained small—just enough for someone of Ifrit’s size, but not nearly large enough for Draven. It wavered, the edges flickering, threatening to collapse once more. Ifrit looked at Draven, confusion evident in his glowing eyes. They had done everything right—they had combined their strength—so why wasn’t it working?
Draven glanced at Ifrit, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, without warning, he grabbed the little spirit, his eyes locking onto Ifrit’s with a fierce determination. "Find her," he said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. "Bring her back."
Ifrit’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him just as Draven threw him towards the rift. The small spirit barely had time to react before he was pushed through, disappearing into the dark, swirling portal just as it began to collapse behind him, sealing off the way.
The room fell silent, the air still heavy with the lingering magic. Draven stood there, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion. He reached up, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze hardening as he turned away from the now-closed rift.
He had done what he could. Ifrit was their best chance now. He couldn’t afford to let doubt creep in—couldn’t afford to second-guess himself. He had to buy time, had to ensure that whatever forces were working against them would be held at bay until Amberine was safe.
Draven straightened, his psychokinesis pen floating beside him, glowing with a faint blue light. He could feel them—more Devil Coffin members approaching, likely alerted by the surge of dimensional energy. They were coming, and they would keep coming until there was nothing left of Aetherion.
His lips curled into a cold, humorless smile, his eyes narrowing. "You won’t win," he whispered, his voice filled with a chilling resolve. "Not as long as I’m here."
The door to the chamber burst open, and more figures stepped through—cloaked, their faces hidden, their movements deliberate. They hesitated for a moment, their eyes widening as they took in the sight before them—Draven standing amidst the remnants of a failed spell, the air still crackling with the energy of the rift.
Draven didn’t give them the chance to react. With a flick of his wrist, the psychokinesis pen shot forward, slicing through the air with deadly precision, striking down the first of the invaders. The pen moved as if it had a mind of its own, darting between the figures, cutting them down before they could even draw their weapons.
Draven moved with purpose, his body fluid, his gaze cold and calculating. He was outnumbered, but it didn’t matter. Numbers had never mattered to him—he had always been able to turn the odds in his favor. His movements were swift, precise, his focus absolute. He struck with lethal efficiency, each attack calculated to maximize impact, to take down his enemies without wasting a moment.
He knew he had to hold the line. He knew that somewhere out there at that dimension, Ifrit was searching for Amberine, that they were depending on him to keep the forces of the Devil Coffin at bay. And he would not fail them.
As the last of the Devil Coffin members fell, Draven stood amidst the chaos, his breath heavy, his gaze sharp. He could feel more coming, could sense the presence of reinforcements, but he didn’t falter. He would keep fighting. He would hold the line.
Until Amberine was safe.
And anyone who dared to stand in his way would fall.
